


You Can't Go Home Yet

by rosekay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-20
Updated: 2006-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-07 10:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosekay/pseuds/rosekay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Family's just what you got.  John watches his boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Go Home Yet

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LJ in 2006.

_Lawrence_

He can still feel the burn of ashes and other things he doesn't want to think about in his eyes and nose and skin. The police sirens have become a constant buzz in the back of his head. The fire will take days to burn out, flames just a shade too bright arching toward the sky in licks and swirls that begin to look like arms to his eyes. The Lawrence fire department will scratch their heads at its persistence and stamina. 

They will send teams in armed with shields and backed up with hoses, but after they almost lose a man to its embrace _he comes out shaken and dazed, muttering about how the flames whispered to him and burnt not in colors and heat but voices and shadows - emerges smelling of sulfur instead of ash_ , and it becomes apparent that the fire's strangely not spreading to other parts of the neighborhood, they just let it sit until one day the crackling and the whispers and oddly cool heat simply curl away almost overnight, leaving not even the skeleton of the home behind. 

But right now John's throat itches for the sweet burn of something that will settle his rattled nerves. He looks over at Dean though, small face pinched and silent with an arc of ash over one soft cheekbone, hands still clutching Sammy's blankets, white-knuckled and grubby, eyes wide and blank - and he closes his eyes and thinks about everything that has to be done. 

 

 _Lincoln_

With Caleb helping him out on a few jobs, they've been able to stay here for a few months, let the boys catch up on some school. Sam takes to school quickly, chattering about Luke Walker who picks his nose _ew_ and Ellie Darcy who once actually dumped the sand and pebbles she'd gotten into her shoes during recess right onto the carpet _you should have seen it dad! Right in the middle of the classroom!_. He tells John about all the characters in the books that Ms. Crane reads to them and how lame Sammy Montez's Thundercats action figures are _it's ok, Dad, I wouldn't want something he has anyway_. 

They'd gotten there just about right for Sammy to start the first grade in time, but for Dean, who's always been behind because of the all the moving around they did, this is the first constant bit of schooling he's had in awhile. From his other schools, he's behind in reading comprehension and ahead in math, but the principal decided to put him in the fourth grade _but Dad! I'm already ten, I'm way too old!_. 

He still doesn't talk much, but his pinched expressions have given way to blinding, freckled grins that grant him what John suspects is a little too much slack from his well-meaning teachers. He never talks about school like Sammy does, more interested in working on cutting down his gun assembly time. He's been bugging John to start him on the shotgun _be careful, Deano, you'll break your wrist if you're not careful_ and watches everything with the same weirdly assessing gaze he's had since the fire. 

He's a quick study and a good soldier, doesn't do much more than bite his lip and nod when John tells him he has to give up Little League to help out him and Caleb on jobs, though when he watches Dean manage to pitch a rough but beautiful changeup in what would be his last game there _always did have good eye and arm, got it from his daddy_ , he almost takes it back. 

Dean's already a damn serious kid, especially focused on watching out for Sammy since the scare with the shtriga. Sometimes John comes home late and finds his boys exhaustedly curled up together on the couch, leftover pasta _Dean's making - he's somehow gotten better than John at the cooking lately_ resting on the table, there's something in his chest that tightens and he has to think everything over again, about everything that's gotta get done. 

You ought to give them a chance to relax a little, be boys, Caleb says to him over a few beers, young guy still - John's been trying to figure out how he got into the business. 

I know, he replies. But when Caleb busts up his knee taking out a poltergeist across town, he still picks up Dean early from school to cover him on a new job - Dean misses a test, and John has to smile all easy and slow at pretty Mrs. Irving for a week. 

After another job a few weeks later, when he watches her look from his strained smile to the brilliant new bruise blooming across Dean's jawline _fucking rawhead nearly took his head off_ with a worried crease between her brows, he knows it's time to leave Lincoln. Sammy's mad he doesn't get to finish his latest project, but Dean calms him down with promises of new games at the next town. 

 

 _Topeka_

They're back in Kansas for the first time in a long time, but Sammy's been settling down nicely with his new junior high and the area's as good a home base as any- the city offers anonymity and a much longer stay before people start noticing anything funny. He gets back from a job once to messages from Dean's high school principal saying he's missed nearly a week of classes. 

When he goes upstairs, slightly irritated at the suggestion of irresponsibility, he sees his boy emerge from the room that he shares with Sammy, lanky limbs and gawky frame swimming in one of John's passed down old shirts, squinting at a thermometer in one hand. His sharp collarbones poke out from above the shirt and there are dark circles under his eyes. 

Oh, hey Dad, Sammy's just been a little under weather for a couple days, hurling all over the place - his temperature's gone down though. Don't worry, I've got everything under control. 

John notices a new yellowed stain splattered down the front of his old shirt; it looks like it's been washed a few times, but whatever it was is still pretty visible. Dean follows his gaze quickly and gives an embarrassed shrug before making an unnecessarily elaborate gesture suggesting large amounts of vomit. John raises an eyebrow in mild disapproval, which Dean answers with a mask of feigned innocence. 

His wide eyes in that moment, so very very green, brought out by the shirt, faded as it is, give John a sharp stab of memory - Mary had always liked to wear that shirt, as oversized on her as it is on Dean now, and her eyes had been just as green. He blinks and realizes that Dean's got his mother's same thick sweep of lashes and graceful arch of jaw and cheek. 

The blond of his hair has faded since he was younger, but there are still flashes of gold when the light hits it just right, much more visible than in Sammy's shock of dark hair _from me_. 

There she is, he realizes, in Dean's still-soft features and rumpled sleepiness. He imagines Dean watching over a sick Sammy, cold press and thermometer in hand, fussing like their mother might have, Dean in his own old shirt, Dean's strangely serene sadness when he's resigned or lost in thought, so at odds with the rest of his teenage-tailored expressions. 

Dad? Hey, Dad? You Ok? 

Fine, Dean, just fine. He forgets all about the phone calls from the school.

Weeks later, he thinks that Dean's latest self-conscious bit of stubble, leather jacket, the scent of smoke he carries around with him probably should have warned John, but it's not until his oldest boy comes back one night with a crazy swagger and a crazier grin, face scrubbed clean and smelling of smoke and soap, that he remembers he never really talked to Dean about birds and bees and rubbers. For some reason the bit of golden-brown stubble on Dean's previously smooth face and that sweet, rotten scent of sex and sweat and teenage energy beneath the overuse of cologne and smoke set off something inside him. 

There's a hot, sick feeling inside his chest when he roars at his son. 

Jesus, Dad, sorry, ok? I thought you'd be, I dunno, proud or something. 

Proud of what, Dean? You swaggering around like some stud? I thought I taught you about control, keeping your eyes on the mission, we don't have time for this crap. 

What crap, Dad? Losing my cherry? 

Definite bite of sarcasm there. 

This is normal, this - this is what kids do! 

You're not normal, Dean, you've got to give me more than that. 

They're talking again by the next day, prepping for a new hunt while Sammy, rolling his eyes at Dean's instructions over taking his own temperature and drinking fluids, throws over the last of his illness. 

 

 _Oklahoma City_

Sammy starts making noise about them staying in the same town for a few years. He's been growing like a weed, all gangly limbs and long torso. 

College applications, Dad, it looks weird when I'm changing schools halfway through the year. 

He doesn't know exactly why he gets so angry so fast. It strikes him that he really has his boys, in a way that goes much deeper than most fathers. There aren't the normal course of teachers, school systems, other adult mentors in the way. Dean has always gotten along famously with Caleb; both boys calm down easily under Pastor Jim's quiet patience; and no Winchester certainly would ever turn down a slice of Mona's blueberry pie when they swing by, but really it's all John. 

He's raised them, trained them, made them. Winchesters hunt together, and they better stay together if they want to live. He feels like he's been holding them up with blood and rifles _and credit card scams, the perfect cover, and a liberal application of the old Winchester charm_ , the cycle of hunts, successes and failures all, the quiet companionship of upkeeping the weaponry and the strangely calming post-battle lull of meaningless chatter and unhealthy food, while Sammy takes to his books again and Dean figures out his next odd job as a mechanic. 

When he'd spent the last of their college funds on ammo, and realized the breadth of his hunt for Mary's killer, he'd had a thought they'd be like this always, a comfortable pattern in a dangerous job. He let out a breath of relief when Dean said nothing his senior year about SATs or grades or applications, and instead just graduated with decent honors, before joining his daddy full time on the hunt. They both knew what they were after.

Sammy's stirrings felt like a betrayal. Years of his life invested in hunting this thing down, looking with new eyes at the dark things that hid around corners and behind people's eyes, hunting and killing and training his boys - Winchesters stay together. 

_God, Dad, don't you understand there's more than this? What do you expect us to do after we find this thing? Just go on hunting forever? What if I want a family? What if I want a real job?_

This IS a real job, Sammy, and you better start understanding that. There's nothing more important than this! Your mother's _gone_ , and don't you forget that. 

Sammy's eyes narrow and his fists clench. He leans forward with a weird, almost spastic energy _where did that come from?_ He grinds out the question slowly, his eyes trained on John's. 

Where is this demon then? 

It's a painful counter that makes the skin around his eyes tighten and a headache start between his temples. 

What are we supposed to do, Dad? What do you know that I don't? Tell me something! 

They're in each other's faces again in a flash. Sure, Sammy hasn't brought up college before, but this is an old argument. John sighs with frustration - Dean's little act of teenage rebellion had manifested in bummed cigarettes and a new swagger - he remembers that fight and his headache grows worse. Sam is his exact height now, and though his voice still cracks occasionally, it's gained a rumbling depth that reminds John of himself. It's disconcerting. 

You listen to me, Sammy. 

It's SAM, God, I'm not a little kid anymore. 

Goddammit, son, you - 

Guys! There's Dean, slipping between them like always, eyes narrowed and arms held out placatingly. 

Stop it. Come on, seriously. We gotta just keep going, ok? Sammy, stop giving Dad shit about this. 

Sam starts to say something, but subsides under his brother's quiet glare more quickly than he did with his dad's yelling. John's not sure how he feels about this. 

You too, Dad, look - everyone, just calm down, ok? Let's just...get dinner.

Dean looks at them both with earnest frustration. Their tense faces relax an inch. The meal's quiet that night. John looks away from Sammy's tight-set mouth and white-knuckled hands to the thickness of Dean's lashes over his eyes.

 

_San Antonio_

You bought him the ticket? 

Dean nods warily, slanting a look at John with clear eyes. His hands tighten on the gun that he's cleaning. 

Dad, Dean begins, you had to let him go - it was gonna happen one way or another, you - John slams the gun down on the dresser, harder than he means, but the blood's rushing to his head now. Dean stares at him unflinchingly, mouth set. 

Goddamit, Dean, we can't be falling apart like this. I thought I told you to look after your brother, make sure he doesn't do stupid shit like this. 

He watches his son's eyes flare, brown and angry in this light. 

Maybe if you'd climb out of that bottle, you'd have noticed we were already falling apart, _Dad_. 

The tone is acid and unexpected. Burnt, John moves before he thinks, grabbing the front of Dean's shirt and slamming him up against the wall. A cheap painting to the side rattles in its frame - they've been in this place a few years for Sammy's sake _and fucking look where it's gotten him_. 

Dean just stares at him, face set and serene, eyes burning but hands and body perfectly steady, just like Mary used to get when he lost his temper. This close his son smells like clean sweat and motor oil - he's dressed in nothing but a worn, white beater and jeans, brown shoulders curved with muscle but still slim and straight as Dean does his last bit of filling out. John's distracted by the clean line of muscle down the grease-smuged arms and the threading pulse at his son's throat. 

His face, god, Mary's eyes and jaw and steady calm. He thinks if he closes his eyes he can smell her too, beneath the stronger scents of _boygarageangerfear_. Dean shifts uncomfortably in his tight grasp, head tilted down a little - he breaks his gaze with a downward sweep of lashes before looking up at John from under them. The full body brush of hard, lean muscle and brightness of Dean's eyes beneath his lashes do something to John's gut. 

He hasn't really had a woman since Mary, barring a few incidents when things really got desperate and his mind was hazy with alcohol. He's shocked at feeling his dick twitch in his pants _this isn't happening_ , and prays that Dean doesn't feel it. He drops his hold suddenly, and Dean looks at him quizzically, long and hard. John turns away awkardly, mouth working but no words emerging. He slams out the door with his keys _he doesn't look back but he can see Dean staring at him from the door anyway_ , and drives to the closest bar, intent on oblivion. 

He ends up somewhere with a woman _doesn't know much about her besides her long, lean body and intent, green stare_. They grapple and kiss and strip in a frenzy. She's tall, and her strong hand on his dick makes something spark behind his hazy eyes. When he finally comes, her backed up against the wall in his bruising crush, her legs wrapped around his waist, he smells sweat and motor oil. 

He dreams about Mary. She's dressed in her favorite shirt of his and apparently nothing else, the hand me down that ended up with Dean, the green one that brings out both their eyes so well. They just sit and smile at each other and he almost can't remember being so happy. There's sunlight striking her clear eyes and rumpled hair, and the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth are the most beautiful things he's seen. There are no shadows in the room, which should look wrong, but feels perfectly right. She dips her head, looking up, at him through her lashes, a teasing smile on her lips. 

He's distracted by the hint of a lush, pink curve. She blushes a little, like on their second date when he stared a second too long, and nervously licks them. She seems younger, then older, but he doesn't care, just leans in for a kiss, eyes on her lips, soft and giving and a little sore in one corner where she bites it when she's nervous. 

He closes his eyes and tries to remember this in real life, but can't really. When he opens them again, it's Dean's face, an altered mirror of his wife's, staring back at him, the same pink lips still wet from their kiss. He wakes with a start and a blinding headache. 

When he comes back home, unshaven and still smelling of alcohol, Dean has already packed up their belongings. He looks at John awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets. 

I sold all the decorations and furniture, Dad, figured we, uh, don't really need it anymore. John nods, feeling out of sorts. 

He thinks of Sam, probably at Stanford already, basking in the California sun _doesn't mean the ghosts aren't there, Sammy, don't forget_ , and looks at Dean, hands running over the barrel of a sawed off shotgun as he doublechecks their equipment - his eyes wander to to the bow and curve of pink lips. 

Dean worries at his lower lip in concentration, and John remembers the sore, sweet spot he tasted in the kiss. 

_What have I become?_ He tries to think about everything again, his focus, his mission, but everything scatters from his aim. 

They're on the road the next day.


End file.
